Talons of a King
by Fate Likes Fools
Summary: AU. Maria is the daughter to an adviser of King John and, unbeknownst to her, has become a tool in her father's quest for the throne. When a secret deal is struck between him and a young Syrian king, she must learn to survive in a new land and culture.
1. The Wager

**A/N: This is something of a side project I came up with a little while ago. I enjoy AU stories so I thought – what the hell? Here's hoping you enjoy and please tell me what you think.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Assassin's Creed, nor am I affiliated with Ubisoft, though I might as well be. Just sayin'.**

Talons of a King

I: The Wager

Another winter day. It was always a hassle to wake in thick furs and blankets, but Maria couldn't complain. Compared to the poorer residents of London, she was far better off. Being able to wake up to a plate of food and surrounded in warmth was a blessing she learned not to take for granted. She arose that morning, yawning and stretching her arms into the air.

She knew better than to look out the window, because all she would find was a gray sky and a chilled wind brushing up against her face. The sun hadn't come out for well over a month, and it didn't seem to be planning to anytime soon. But that was her homeland. A cold, frigid place.

And the weather reflected the people.

A knock came at her door and Sara, the maid, let herself in with a tray of breakfast. "Good morning, my lady! I trust you have slept well." She had been in the service of her father for as long as her memories could go back. She was a tall, lean woman with kind brown eyes and auburn hair that was beginning to gray with age.

"Well enough, thank you," she replied, sighing. "Oh for the love of God, Sara, do not even bother with the curtains, it will only be the same old sight." Her maid ignored the request, thrusting the dark brown curtains aside and letting the blinding light in. She let out a groan and shoved her head under the covers into the safety of the darkness.

"Darkness is for rats and thieves," she informed her in a matter-of-fact tone, strolling over and ripping the blankets off of her body. "You need to let a little light in, or I suspect you'll go mad."

"I'm already mad," she commented in a grumble as she began eating her breakfast, which elicited a light-hearted laugh from her maid.

Sara strolled over to the armoire. "That is quite true – but I'd rather you not get … madder, so to speak, hm?"

The young woman rolled her eyes. "I'd rather be mad than boring." Sara chose a dark green gown and a black, beaded belt. Maria examined herself in a mirror. Displeased with her unkempt hair, she tied it back in a braid. She often found that she did not look much like her father. William Thorpe, chief adviser to His Majesty, King John, was a burly man with something of a square head, dark green eyes and sandy blond hair.

Maria's hair was dark enough to fool one into thinking it was black at some angles, and her eyes were a bright shade of blue. William never spoke of her mother, but Sara often told her behind closed doors that she was, without a doubt, her mother's daughter.

"Your father is entertaining foreign guests today," Sara commented. It surprised Maria, as this was the first time her father was home during the day in a long time. Whoever these foreign guests were, they must have been important. When she was younger, Maria was forced to be part of King John's court, but she had found she could never fit in with those people, and begged her father again and again to let her stay at the Thorpe manor with Sara and the hounds.

"Who are they?" she asked.

"He did not say," she answered, which was not particularly astonishing. Her father never told her anything. Their relationship had been strained from the time she was a child. She had grown accustomed to it. Maria slipped on a dark blue coat to keep her warm in the cold English air, with rabbit fur lining the large sleeves.

She turned on her heel and exited her large room, descending the stone steps in order to go to the court yard, where her dogs waited for her. Wagging their tails in excitement upon her arrival, both of them trotted up to her and let out barks of happiness at her presence. They came from the same mother, were the only two surviving pups of that litter, and she had raised them since infancy and refused to give them up for anything. They were mutts, and resembled wolves in almost every way but demeanor, which was more of that of a hunting dog.

The older and rowdiest was Arden, who had assumed since birth that he was the alpha male. His coat was a mixture of black and and silver, topped with piercing, yet soft and beautiful brown eyes. He demanded the most attention out of Maria, which had always amused her. The younger and more reserved was Eira, who was the color of snow and the runt of her litter. She was born with red eyes, which always managed to frighten whoever came into contact with her, some deeming her demonic. Because of this, she disliked everyone other than Maria and shied away from them.

"Did you both sleep well?" she asked them, smiling. Arden let out a bark, nudging her hand with his snout. That was the universal sign of hunger. Maria rolled her eyes. An animal with a one-track mind. She made her way over to the kitchen, her dogs at her heels, where the cook, Bolton, was toiling over the day's supper. She assumed it was for the foreign guests, and attempted to slink by and grab some food.

"Not so fast, my lady!" he cried. "I need every single morsel in this kitchen, do you hear me? I will _not_ be hindered because of those mutts – I am entertaining people from another land, I'll have you know!" Bolton was nothing without his excessive theatrics. He was a large, pale man with beady brown eyes and gray hair. He was also the best cook in all of England, in Maria's not-so-humble opinion.

"I understand, Bolton," she said, attempting to look disappointed as she snaked her hand over to the counter where there lied two small pieces of beef. "I'll just look for food elsewhere …"

"You better," he grumbled, getting back to his meal, the scent of which was driving her mad with hunger. Maria tucked the meat into her sleeves and rushed out of the kitchen, grinning to herself at her sneakiness.

"Do you see what I do for you two?" she demanded to them, showing them their breakfast with a proud smirk on her face. She tossed Eira her slab, but withheld Arden's on complete purpose. His pupils dilated and his tail wagged so fast it was almost a blur. "And what is the big bad alpha male going to do?"

She took off running with the food in hand, and Arden gave chase. He let out three barks and she threw her head back in a laugh, because it was wishful thinking that she could ever outrun him. Maria didn't care that she didn't fit in with people. She had her dogs, and they were the most genuine and the most loyal of all creatures in the world.

Arden positioned himself to pounce, and she anticipated it – but he froze midway and turned his head, a growl rumbling in his throat. She raised an eyebrow and turned her head to where he was staring. Eira dashed up to her side and hid out of reflex behind her.

Three figures were advancing in the yard. In the middle, she recognized her father, but the other two were a complete mystery. The foreign guests, perhaps? She tossed Arden his breakfast and watched them walk forward with tense eyes. The strangers were dressed in odd clothing, from what she could make out from her vantage point.

"And this," she heard her father say to the both of them, "is my daughter, Maria."

One of them stepped forward. He wore white robes covered by a black overcoat. His skin was a dark olive tan, darker than she had ever seen on anyone. His facial features were intense, and his eyes, a deep chocolate, examined her with meticulous precision. And his lack of left arm was difficult to ignore.

"I am Malik Al-Sayf," he introduced himself with a heavy accent. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Maria. Your father speaks highly of you."

"The pleasure is mine," she murmured, cautious. The other hadn't said a word yet, and a good portion of his face was covered with a strange gray hood. Nonetheless, she could feel his eyes on her, boring straight through her. It made the situation a considerable bit more uncomfortable.

Malik gestured to the hooded man standing beside her father. "And this is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, king of Masyaf and many lands around it, and one of the most powerful men in all of Syria." Altaïr stepped forward, nodding his head once.

"He does not look very regal," she commented. When she thought of a king or a leader, she pictured King John and his crown adorned with jewels and gold, and his robes of many colors and accented with the finest accessories in the land. This man was covered in white and black robes and looked like he would be more suited to be trapped in a monastery somewhere.

"We do not believe in luxury and frivolity," he stated. "A leader is defined by his skill and respect for his people, not by how much gold and silk fills his closet."

"Well said," she replied, shifting her gaze to Altaïr. "Does he not speak?"

"Not in your tongue, I am afraid," Malik informed her. "His grasp of this language is sub-par, and he is the type to wish for perfection before attempting it in front of a native speaker like yourself."

How strange. "I see, then you are his interpreter?"

He nodded. "Indeed. I studied your language when I was young, and I am confident enough to say that whatever you desire me to relay to him, is almost always in my range."

It was then that she heard Altaïr speak for the first time. He asked something of Malik in a calm, direct voice, inclining his head to her dogs, who were gnawing away at their breakfast without a care in the world. The sound of such a foreign tongue intrigued her, and she tilted her head, attempting to guess what he was asking.

Malik nodded his head and turned to her. "Altaïr is wondering why you keep such large beasts so close by your side."

"They are not beasts," she huffed, offended a bit by his harsh words. She let out a soft whistle and their heads perked up. Both trotted forward to stand beside her. Maria let her hand hover over Eira, and then Arden, to identify them. "The white one is Eira, and this is her older brother, Arden. I've had them since they were pups and they are more loyal to me than any human ever would be."

Her father gave her a narrow-eyed look. A warning. But for what? She was only defending her dogs. Was that so wrong? Malik turned and explained it to Altaïr. He smirked, letting out a laugh. She didn't have to speak the language to tell he was making a sarcastic remark.

"He …" Malik hesitated, looking back and demanding something of Altaïr. It was almost like he was scolding him for a moment. He seemed to insist upon his point. The translator groaned and faced the girl again. "He asks what one so sheltered like yourself knows of loyalty."

Maria scowled. "Tell him that he should not be so arrogant as to assume he knows who I am."

Malik raised an eyebrow in surprise, but opened his mouth to relay the message until William Thorpe stopped him. "That is enough, Maria! I will not have you disrespecting my honored guests. Apologize at once."

"_Father_!" she cried. "He disrespected _me_! Did you not see what he–?"

"I will hear no more of your nonsense," he hissed, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand. "Apologize." Malik had translated the short exchange to Altaïr, and she was certain he had added her last comment in. There was an expectant look to him that infuriated her.

She feigned apology, stepping forward. "My apologies for my rudeness, Sir Altaïr." She bowed her head a moment before looking up and allowing the darkest look to cross her face. "But of course, you do not need Sir Malik's assistance to know I'm lying through my teeth, and that I would rather die than _actually_ apologize to you."

As she flashed him a sweet, fake smile, she heard a snort of laughter from behind her, coming from the direction of Malik. She turned on her heel, beckoned her dogs, and went straight to her room, content that she had won the argument and uncaring of the retributions.

Although she would have loved to witness his expression when Malik translated.

* * *

><p>When she explained what had happened to Sara, her maid sighed, running a hand through her hair in frustration. Maria, however, could still detect the faint smile on the woman's face.<p>

"You really must learn how to control that mouth, My Lady," she warned her, shaking her head as she straightened up the room. Maria was sitting at the edge of her bed, kicking her legs back and forth, content with herself.

"You know I cannot stand by and allow some foreigner to insult me," she exclaimed, laying herself out on her bed with her hands tucked behind her head.

Sara chuckled. "I am positive you would have been married if you did not terrify every suitor that came knocking at your door with that sharp tongue."

She snorted. "A man who cannot handle me is not worth the effort." She was twenty-one, and realized that most girls at that age were either betrothed or married. The thought sometimes worried her late at night, but her pride was far too large of a factor to disregard in order to please a mere man.

Her maid frowned a bit, placing a hand against the stubborn girl's pale face. "I only want to see you happy, my dear." The thought was cut short when the door slammed open and her father filed into the room without a word, closing it behind him.

"You'd do well to remember your manners," he advised her, but something looked off. Maria knew her father, and knew how he got when he was angry, but looking at his expression, he seemed … satisfied, for some odd reason.

"That Arab bastard insulted me," she commented, enjoying the feeling of her smugness. "I only defended myself."

"Allow me to make myself clearer," he said. "You'd do well to remember your manners in the presence of your fiancé."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It isn't Maria without a little fiest, I always say. To clarify a few things: Altaïr is 25 here, around the same age when he, in game, cocked up big time forced to start all over, and had to learn a few life lessons. So, yeah, his arrogance is pre-game status. WOO.**


	2. Immigrant

Talons of a King

II: Immigrant

Maria's jaw went slack. Her astonished fury had shocked her into silence. William regarded her with a raised eyebrow. "You're speechless? How rare."

"Forgive me if I am speaking out of place, M'Lord," Sara murmured. "But … an Arab? Surely she would benefit _far_ more with someone who was born under the ways of Our Lord."

"This match transcends the bounds of religion," he replied. "Besides, it is within our best interests that we start making friends with our Muslim neighbors, following such a costly Crusade."

"And you do so by ruining _my_ life?" she demanded in a yell, her hands flying in the air in exasperation, recovering her voice. "If you are so concerned with friendship, _you_ marry him!"

His eyes narrowed. "I was far too lenient with you as a child. It has given you a foul tongue."

Her lips curled up into a snarl. "I care not what you do to me, because there is no way in Hell I am marrying that pompous Arab bastard."

"This is not a matter up for discussion or debate, Maria," he deadpanned with chilling finality. "You will marry Altaïr. Or you will find yourself thrown out of this house, and forced to fend for yourself as a beggar in the dead of winter."

Her trembling hands clenched into fists so tight they turned her knuckles white. "You would do this to your own daughter? I have never disobeyed you, Father. Not once in my entire life. But what you are doing right now is sentencing me to life in exile."

"You needn't be so dramatic," he said with a sigh. "All I am doing is–!"

"Forcing me to move to a land far away," she interjected, "where I do not know the language or the customs of its people. To be a stranger for the rest of my life! The one you _wish me to marry_ does not even speak my language, Father!"

"You will learn Arabic eventually," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It is only a concern of time – which you have none of right now, here in England."

"What are you implying?"

"I mean that you are unmarried at the age of twenty-one," he reminded her in a harsh, matter-of-fact tone that made her wince. "Every solitary woman in the court around your age is married, and either expecting a child, or already has a child. You will be a _queen_. Do you want to be alone for the rest of your life?"

She shook her head. "I do not want to be his queen! I will be alone, regardless! I know his type, Father, the ones who have a wife for show but _truly_ belong to concubines and whores! _I will not lead that kind of life__!"_

"This is not one of your story books, Maria," he argued in a blank tone. "This is the real world. And this is not to be discussed further. Begin packing your things. You leave in a few days' time." He turned on his heel and began walking toward the door.

She jumped to her feet. "Give me a reason then. Allow me a justification as to why you insist upon uprooting me from everything I hold near and dear. _What purpose does this serve, Father_?"

He paused before making his exit. "For your own good."

* * *

><p>Maria had her face buried in Eira's stomach the next morning, refusing to budge from her position on her bed for anything. She did not wish to eat, drink, or even talk to anyone else. She wanted to wake up from this nightmare and be careless once more. But all of that had disappeared in the blink of an eye.<p>

She had considered running away more than once, but there was always a means of where to go that her father could not find her. And in the winter. That was one of the things that troubled her the most. Maria would not be able to withstand the English winter time unprotected. It would be fatally foolish to assume that she could. Most nights she would curl under two heavy blankets and it still wasn't enough to stem the shivering.

"My Lady, you_ must_ eat," Sara had insisted. "I will not have you fall ill in the wake of such a long journey ahead of you."

"I do not wish to be plump and healthy for that bastard," she snarled. "Allow me to be emaciated and filthy – let him see if he wants to marry me, then!"

She sighed. "Try and make the best of the situation, hm?"

"_The best of the situation_?" she repeated, her eyes widening in disbelief. "What in God's name could I look forward to in this deal with Satan?"

"You've often complained about being trapped here," she reminded her in a gentle, maternal voice. "Think of it as an adventure, dear. From one of your books."

She ran a frustrated hand through her disheveled hair. "An adventure is a tale of bravery, daring, and courage, Sara. Not of a disgruntled noble girl forced to marry an arrogant Arabian heathen king against her will. If such a tale was written, I guarantee you no one would want to read it."

Sara smiled. "No, but you can make it a story worth telling. A story of your survival in a foreign land. And let's not forget that you are going to be a queen."

She snorted. "Royal life has never appealed to me."

"Well, had history gone a bit differently, it would have," she commented.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"Do not tell me you forgot of the heritage of your family, Maria. The Thorpes ruled over England for many a century before they were overthrown when your grandfather was born." She wagged her finger at her. "That is the esteemed history of your ancestors, My Lady. You would do well to remember it."

Maria shrugged, twirling her finger in Eira's soft, snow white fur. "I do not wish to be like those people in King John's court, who cling on to the droplets of royalty in their blood. Life is easier when you do not have an entire country and its people looking to you for guidance."

"If you keep poking holes in this, you are going to be miserable," Sara warned her with a frown of disapproval. "It's only as horrible as you make it out to be. Either way, it is not like he is the king of an entire _country_ – more like a small land. Far easier to manage, hm?"

"Regardless of size, width or length – I do _not _want to be _his_ queen!" she barked, burying her face in her hands.

There was a pause, and Sara sat beside her and put a reassuring arm around the young woman's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Now, now, My Lady. You mustn't do this to yourself or you shall go mad."

"What am I to do, Sara?" she demanded, although her voice faltered in weakness. "I cannot even speak to him, what kind of marriage is that? I knew it was only a matter of time before Father forced me to marry, b–but I thought, surely, to an _Englishman_. Someone I could at least readily insult without the use of some interpreter!"

Her maid let out a small laugh. "I imagine there are creative ways to insult someone in his language, too."

"There better be," Maria grumbled. "Because that is the first damn thing I am going to learn when they force me to study that accursed tongue."

"Do not think of this as a damning to an alternate Hell," Sara insisted, placing a hand atop Maria's. "Think of it as a challenge, My Lady. To go where no Christian woman has gone before and make the most of it. You can write me every day and detail your progress."

"I suppose," she murmured, twirling an absent circle in Eira's soft belly. "I can at least make damn sure he _severely_ regrets the day he decided to make me his wife."

Sara let out a snort of laughter. "I imagine that's a way to look at it, yes."

* * *

><p>Other than packing all the belongings she felt she needed, Maria made a point about soaking in as much of the cold English air as she could. In any normal situation, she would have stayed inside and remained warm, but now that she was being forced to leave, it all felt so strangely nice. Her dogs stood by her side as she wandered around the small village that sat just outside the reach of her family's manor.<p>

Maria cupped her hands and brought them close to her face, blowing hot air into them and rubbing them together to stimulate some kind of warmth. It was the dead of January, and everything was asleep until spring. She felt a sadness inside of her that she was not going to be able to see it all come back to life again.

She wondered what awaited her in 'Masyaf', as that bastard called it. Was it a small land in the middle of a desert? Or perhaps it was a handful of tents. He did not seem wealthy enough to own a castle, since they did not believe in "luxury and frivolity". She shook her head, dispelling such thoughts until later. She did not want to work herself up before she was even departing.

She paused when she felt moisture on her head, looking up to see that it was snowing. A small smile tugged on her lips as it drifted to the ground. It had always fascinated her how quiet it was when it was snowing. It was unlike any other kind of silence.

She held out her hand and let some of the flakes sprinkle onto her palms, staring at them until they melted.

"You must be so used to the cold here," she turned to see Malik, the interpreter without someone to interpret for, walking forward with his hand behind his back. "I personally find it all very depressing."

"Where is your king?"

"He does not like such weather, so he stays inside the room your father designated as his quarters," he explained with a shrug. "As for me, I have rarely experienced so much … what is it in your tongue, again?" He held out his hand just as she did – she tried her best not to stare at the lack of his left arm – his eyebrows knitting together as the cold substance chilled his skin.

"Snow," she replied, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "It does not snow, where you come from?"

He let out a soft chuckle. "It does, My Lady. It is quite hot most of the year in Masyaf, but it nonetheless does sprinkle a bit – one or two months. It just surprises me to see so much of it all at once, covering your land in a blanket."

She kept her eyes fixated on the falling snow. "I see."

"I know it all seems very confusing right now, and I do not blame you if a marriage to Altaïr is the last thing you were hoping for," Malik murmured. "But believe me when I say you will come to love Masyaf as I do. It will only take … time … for you to grow used to everything."

"That is optimistic of you, Sir Mailk," she replied, one of her hands closing into a fist. "But I doubt I will come to accept my prison as my home."

"You think of this as a prison sentence?" he inquired.

She nodded without hesitance. "Without a doubt. I will be a stranger – an outsider – forced to assimilate into a land against my will and leave _everything_ I know behind me."

"But it is also a chance to have a brand new experience." He sounded like Sara. "Your father told me how you rarely ever left the manor. This will give you a chance to stretch your legs, hm?"

"What my question is," she exclaimed, changing the topic altogether, "is what he wants in me. Why in God's name does he want to marry _me_, of all people? Why doesn't he want to marry some woman from your town and be done with it?"

Malik paused a moment before he answered. "I asked him the very same question on our way over here. He did not give me a clear answer."

She scoffed. "He probably thinks I'm some kind of exotic pet."

"He is actually taken with your spirit," Malik informed her. "You are, after all, the first woman to be so, uhm … crass … with him." _I'll be so much more than crass when he makes the mistake of marrying me_, she decided, suppressing a sadistic smile.

"Does he think he can tame me?" she asked.

"Yes, actually," Malik answered with a laugh. "Altaïr is far from a modest man."

"I am not a stallion that can be broken in," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "And how exactly does he expect to do that if he cannot even speak my language?"

"I have been teaching him this tongue, but as I've said, he is the type to strive for perfection before attempting it," he explained. "And either way, I will be teaching you our language intensively in the months to come. Under my tutelage, it won't be long before you won't need much of my help."

"It seems Altaïr is not the only one who lacks modesty," Maria commented, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. "Guilty, My Lady."

* * *

><p>The both of them were back in Thorpe Manor before it grew too dark. Maria had decided that she could tolerate Malik's presence. His humor was as dry as hers, and it was refreshing. As for her husband-to-be, he was waiting by the fireplace in the dining room, staring at the flames with an unreadable expression on his face.<p>

"Malik," he said when he noticed their entrance. He asked his interpreter a question, and as she stared at his body language, she could tell he was annoyed at something or other. Malik, in turn, sighed.

"What is he saying?" she asked.

He rolled his eyes. "He asked me what I was doing outside in this God forsaken weather, and what I've told you."

"Tell him to learn the language, then he'll figure it out," she remarked, turning on her heel and toward her room. Malik relayed that to Altaïr.

The young king dashed forward and blocked her path with his body. He told her something in a commanding tone. "Altaïr is requesting you treat him with a bit more respect."

She cocked an eyebrow, almost feeling a need to laugh at his audacity. "Respect is earned, little king; it is not a birth right." She attempted to walk past him when a hand clamped down onto her wrist.

"You … be wife soon," Altaïr declared. "Wife treat husband with … respect."

"I am not your wife yet," she snarled, ripping her hand out of his grip. "Just because I am being forced to marry you does not mean I will treat you any better than you deserve. Get that in your head." God, he was so irritating. She strode upstairs to her chamber, her dogs following close behind. She really was in a golden position to undermine him, because whether or not it ruined the engagement was not her problem. Maria decided the most ideal situation was for him to call the entire thing off due to her rudeness.

But wishful thinking aside, she knew quite well that would never happen. If he came all the way from Syria, he was not leaving without the reason why.

* * *

><p>She was woken up at dawn and all of her belongings were loaded into a carriage. There was a tearful goodbye to Sara, who made Maria swear to write every single instance there was parchment at the ready. There was a brief pause before her departure in which Altaïr made a comment about her dogs, and how they would be better off staying behind.<p>

Maria had given him the darkest glare she could ever administer unto another living creature. She would _not_ be separated from Eira and Arden. Her only link to England would not be taken from her. He did not even need Malik to understand that. Her father watched her with a blank expression on his face as she stepped into the carriage.

"Have a safe journey, Maria," he said. "I made the right decision." There was no need to reply, and so she refused to, and the carriage galloped away to the London harbor, where the ship to her new life awaited her.

Maria stared at Sara, who never looked away from her departing mistress. The only friendly face she was graced with in her young life. It was a somber feeling.

And as she stared out the window of the carriage as the horses were spurred to life, she had never felt more alone.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh, Maria. Spitting poison until the very end. But thank you all for the reviews so far. It's really motivated me to kick it into higher gear. I might be a bit later with updates because I really need to crack down on my AP summer assignments because the first day of school is coming closer and closer, haha. **


	3. Marital Expectations

Talons of a King

III: Marital Expectations

Altaïr watched his fiancée as she stood at the edge of the deck of the ship that would take them to the port closest to Masyaf. She was staring at the waves, her two large dogs sitting by her side. Wind from the sea blew her thick, dark brown hair to and fro. She hadn't moved from that spot for well over an hour, and the young king and his adviser were standing on the opposite end of the ship, observing. She really was beautiful, Altaïr found himself thinking. He'd never seen anything like her.

Her skin was pale, rivaling the snow they had been forced to endure back in her home of England. Her hair was a direct contrast to this, a very dark brown that made her look even paler. Maria's face was rounded, but nonetheless sharp at the chin. Her lips were a bit thin, but her larger bottom lip gave her the appearance of a pout when she wasn't scowling. Which was damn near all day, every day. Did the woman ever smile, he wondered.

"We have been on this ship for a week," Altair commented in an irritable tone. "And she has yet to even look at me." Used to the affections of many a woman back home, the indifferenceof this woman was especially annoying.

Malik regarded his king with a raised eyebrow. "Do you expect her to fall to her knees and beg for your affections? She has just been forced to leave her home. Give her some time."

"How much time does one woman need?" he demanded. "I can think of women in Masyaf that would kill to be in a position like hers."

"And _that_ is why she will not look at you," his adviser and interpreter commented.

The young king's eyebrows rose in confusion. "What?"

"That comment just now, _Maliki_," he replied. "It is your arrogance that turns the woman away from you. The fact that you _expect_ her to take this engagement as anything other than a gross inconvenience." In any normal circumstance, those who spoke to him in so blunt and crass a way would suffer a punishment, but the two of them had known each other for so long that Altaïr expected Malik to speak without censor. It made his life easier to know he had someone who would always tell him the honest truth, as frustrating as it could be at times.

"Whose side are you even on?" Altaïr grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"The side of rationality," Malik answered with a heavy sigh. "This is not a normal woman, and until you can understand that, you will make no progress with her. You must treat her not as a possession, but as an honored guest. And then, maybe she will think of you as something other than an arrogant donkey who has stolen her away from her home."

Amber eyes narrowed. "You are taking quite a bit of pleasure from this, Malik."

"After years of watching silly, intrepid women falling over you? Of course I am. I am glad to see there are women in this world with sense enough to make you work for their affections."

"Any other king would have you beheaded for such a remark," he said.

The one-armed man smirked. "But you would not dare do such a thing to the only person in this world who you trust."

He could not have been more right. "Do you truly think she sees me as an arrogant donkey?"

"Oh, most definitely," Malik agreed without hesitance, chuckling. "You have chosen a woman embodied by fire, _Maliki_. And only a calm rainstorm, over time, may dull the flames. Time is your greatest ally in the endeavors of this woman's heart."

Altaïr scowled, skeptical. "It seems to me she would much rather spit in the face of a man than allow time to change that."

"Because you lack patience," Malik reminded him. "Time cannot exist without the patience to see it through."

"Speak clearly, for your consistent idioms irritate me," he demanded.

"Be kind," he deadpanned, annoyed. "Be considerate, humble and polite. She will come around, then."

He sighed. "Tell me again why I agreed to William's proposal, Malik."

"Because you were bored of the women of Masyaf," he replied with a roll of his eyes. "And what better way to exact revenge onto the English king for nearly destroying our home during one of the Crusades than to aid in his deposition?"

He nodded, his hand clenching into a fist. "That bastard will pay. I would have done it myself, but I find it much harsher for it to be coming from one of his most trusted advisers. As a king, if you betrayed me in such a way for the throne, well, it would be a crushing blow."

Malik snorted. "Put the concept out of your head, for I have no interest in the throne and your pompous little title."

Altaïr let out a hearty laugh, throwing his head back, patting Malik on the shoulder. "You would make a terrible king nonetheless, since you care little for the daily problems of a sovereign."

"Just as you do, _Maliki_." Both men shared a collective smirk.

* * *

><p>"You seem quite fascinated with the sea, <em>Sayyidaty<em>." Maria turned to see Malik standing beside her.

"What did you call me?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smiled a bit. "It is your first Arabic lesson. _Sayyidaty_ means 'My Lady'. Its male equivalent would be _sayyidy_, meaning, 'My Lord'."

"_Sayyidaty_," she said the strange foreign word, raising an eyebrow and pausing after every syllable to not sound entirely inept to the man, although any hope of that was gone the moment she opened her mouth.

"Do not despair if the pronunciation does not come to you in the beginning," Malik advised her with a wave of his hand. "I have found that your people cannot, for the life of them, pronounce some things in my language. It is actually fairly hilarious when they try."

"I can tell that you are going to be a very supportive teacher," Maria remarked in a blank, sarcastic tone.

He winked, smirking. "I live to serve you, _Sayyidaty_, as you will be _malikaty_ in a matter of months."

"What does–?"

"My Queen," he answered.

"It sounds like your name," she murmured, confused.

"My name means 'king'," Malik informed her with a nonchalant shrug.

She let out a short chuckle. "It seems the universe played a bit of a joke on you."

"No. It is not my role in this world to rule over people. It is merely to aid those who must do it themselves, making sure their own foolishness does not mar the lives of the people they rule, including myself. You must never forget that the decisions you and Altaïr make will affect us all, _Sayyidaty_. It is a responsibility I doubt I could handle with very much patience."

"If _you_ cannot do it," she replied with a heavy sigh, "I have no hope of attempting it."

"Royalty is in your blood, is it not?" he asked. "If I remember correctly, your family ruled England for many centuries before–"

"We were overthrown, yes," she cut him off with impatience, her hands tightening on the damp material of the ship. "But the Thorpes are a House of old, Malik. My great-grandfather was the last one on the throne and he was driven mad sitting upon it. My father likes to romanticize it, but I know that is why he was killed. No one wants a mad king."

His expression grew a bit gentle. "I should think madness does not run in one's blood, _Sayyidaty_. You seem sane to me. Had I seen any signs of madness on or in you, I would not have allowed_ Maliki_ to accept you as his betrothed."

The way he worded that sentence intrigued her. "_Allowed_ him?"

"Altaïr does not take a step forward as complex as this without my opinion on it," the man said in a matter-of-fact voice. "He trusts me above all others, you see. And as you have said, it is not in my nature to be completely modest in regards to my competence as an educator and an adviser." He spoke with his arm tucked behind his back and his posture erect. There was a certain elegance about him. She guessed that his life must have been alongside Altaïr, privileged with esteem and wealth.

She glanced at her husband-to-be, who seemed to be staring off into space. She found it odd that she had yet to see his face in its entirety. Although, she had managed to see a long scar on the side of his mouth. "Why did he choose me, above all others?"

"That is a question I do not know the answer to," Malik replied. "But maybe one day you can ask him." And with that, the man turned and walked off to attend to other business, leaving Maria to her dogs and her thoughts. She had decided that it had been a valiant run, but it was high time to stop kicking and screaming and come to terms with what her fate was.

Arrogant and pompous as the man seemed, he had done nothing to offend her since they'd gotten onto the ship. In fact, he had left her alone for the week they had been on this accursed boat. It surprised her that he hadn't pestered her at all, but she supposed it was due to the obvious language barrier, and Malik wasn't a toy one could summon when in need of idle chit-chat. She could tell he valued himself a bit higher than that.

* * *

><p>England was dreadfully depressing at this time of the year. Widespread famine was rampant due to the lack of anything growing. Peasants came day in and day out requesting help, but what could he do? Give them his personal rations? Although a strange new method had been popping up in some regions that was doing quite well – involving splitting the land into thirds, or some rubbish – that he would look into when he found the time. How he wished he could go to his smaller manor in the south of France and bask in some much needed sunlight. But with this messy business in his own midst, well, to leave would be most foolish.<p>

"So let me understand this quite clearly, Thomas," the king murmured, fingering the edge of his sleeve in absent boredom, "you said you saw that heathen, Godless bastard on a ship in _my_ port?" Thomas was one of his attendants—the son of a distant relative of some sort—and he did not care to remember how far the lengths of his family stretched. A boy of only sixteen, but he followed orders well and knew better than to ask questions. He was a thin boy, with unkempt brown hair and freckles spotting his pale face.

"Y – Yes, sire," Thomas replied, keeping his eyes lowered. "I rushed straight to you because I know your relations with the Saracens–!"

"Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad is not merely a Saracen, Thomas," he explained to the boy. "He is the leader of an order of most troublesome people. I suspect his brief, but nonetheless foul, presence here has a most curious explanation."

The boy tilted his head. "An order, sire?"

Ah, yes. Thomas would have no idea about this ancient rivalry. He was far too young to understand what it meant, either. John himself was _forced_ to understand at an early age, to come to terms with just what it was to be a Templar. He did not want to burden the child with such a confusing explanation. "Forget about it, Thomas. What I need you to do is fetch my advisers. All of them. I intend to speak with them privately."

He nodded without hesitation. Such an obedient lad. "With haste, My Lord." He ran off to do his lord's bidding, leaving him lounging in the large chair of his study. It irked him quite a bit that an Assassin was on his land without his knowledge. How in God's name could they have arrived, unnoticed?

The large door opened, interrupting the befuddled king's reverie. In stepped his four most trusted advisers: James Duvont, Joseph of Gaunt, Walter de Montagu, and William Thorpe. All noble men with royal or otherwise aristocratic blood.

"My friends, please, sit so that we may begin our discussion," John said, gesturing to the large table in the center of the room. Once they were all seated, John folded his hands together and began. "It seems we have had a strange occurrence the other day."

"A strange occurrence, My Lord?" inquired Joseph. He was a thin, spindly man with a narrow face and black, straight hair that he kept tied back with a ribbon of some sorts. His face was clean-shaven, which was a rarity amongst the men in court.

John nodded. "Indeed. Thomas spotted none other than Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad, heretic king of Masyaf and leader of the Assassins in _my_ port. Can someone explain how this could possibly happen?"

The atmosphere visibly tensed, and John leaned back in his chair with a rise of an eyebrow, daring any of them to try their hand at speaking. It was William that spoke first, which surprised him. He was, in most circumstances, a man of few words.

"If I may, My Lord," he said in his usual business-like tone, "was he with anyone?"

John pursed his lips. How silly of him to forget such a crucial detail. "I do not know. Thomas!" The young ward dashed into the study as quick as lightning.

"Y – Yes, M'lord?"

"Tell me, boy," he murmured, "was that heathen accompanied by anyone?"

Thomas paused, recollecting the memory. "Y – Yes! A man who did not have a left arm and a woman. I did not see her face, though; although she did not look she was one of them. Her skin was pale. She looked English."

"An Englishwoman on a ship with two Assassins, one of which lacks a left arm," John repeated, confused, stroking the thickening stubble on his face in pensive consideration of the mental image in his mind. "This seems more like a fantasy tale than an actual recollection of a past event."

"Perhaps it is, sire!" exclaimed Walter, pounding his fist on the table. He had always been such a brute. It became tiring at times, but he was a damn good soldier – and perhaps one of the best generals John ever had. He was broad-shouldered with wild dark brown hair that was flecked with gray and a thick beard. "How do we know the boy is not making up stories?"

"I'm not!" Thomas insisted, his fists clenching. And that was when John knew that this wasn't a lie. He rarely ever spoke up to anyone unless he was certain about things. Thomas was not a child blessed with a particular amount of bravery, but he knew when he wasn't lying, and this was one of those times.

"Calm yourself," John told him. "I believe you. You would not lie to your king, would you, Thomas?"

His dark blue eyes brightened as if lit by the sun itself. "No, sire, I would rather chop my own head off."

"That is what I like to hear," John said with a nod. "Tell me, did she look like she was there against her will?"

"She did seem a bit … angry," Thomas mumbled, remembering the thought of the woman storming onto the deck of the ship, and even from his far position, he could see the scowl on her face. "But she was not tied up or bound at all."

"Perhaps she is one of them?" Walter suggested, running a hand through his stringy, pale blond hair. "It only makes sense."

John clicked his tongue in annoyance. "How in God's name have those bastards poisoned the minds of my poor citizens from all in the way in Syria?"

"We do not and cannot know where the allegiances of each and every member of this country lie," William reminded his king. "Perhaps this woman was born into that Godforsaken order?"

The king sighed. "I want that woman's name. I do not like the thought of traitors on my land coercing with those heathens."

"It shall be done, Majesty," all four said in near unison.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: My apologies for more of a delay than usual, but school is starting up again and that means I have to wrap up a lot of unnecessary bullshit. And because of this, updating may be slower than usual because I want to focus more energy on schoolwork and whatnot, but whenever I get free time, I'll definitely put it to writing this and of course, the Confessor, which I have been neglecting for a little while …**

**but anyway. Thank you for the positive feedback! Keep it coming 8D**


	4. Dockside

Talons of a King

IV: Dockside

To say she was sick of the boat ride would be a gross understatement. She suspected that she would avoid any and all ships for as long as she could manage after this voyage. Even her dogs were beginning to whine, looking up at her with pleading eyes that implored when they were going to be on solid land again. She thanked her lucky stars her father did not force her to marry a sailor.

She had not been attempting to keep track of the time that had passed, although she had been tempted more than once to ask Malik. Although she was certain he had noticed her impatience festering, he just saw no need to comment.

"Only a few more days, _Sayyidaty_," he informed her one cloudy afternoon. "Until then, perhaps you could attempt to socialize with your fiancé."

She scowled. "Must I?"

"Unless you want to marry him with only the opinion that he is an arrogant bastard, then, yes."

"What am I supposed to say?" she asked. "We have no common language."

Malik rolled his eyes. "And what am I, here to add on to the scenery?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Very well. I will attempt to not be difficult."

"I doubt that is possible," he scoffed, although she could tell he was teasing, in his own way. She grimaced, watching as he walked away to go fetch his king. And her betrothed. The thought still did not sit right with her. Not necessarily because of the man himself, but the entire affair did not seem right in her head. For years she had heard terrible stories about the Holy Land, about the atrocious things the Godless Muslim heathens did to good, just Christian soldiers.

And now her father expected her to marry one of their leaders, to become assimilated into a new land, culture and people and bear 'the enemy' sons. It all seemed so out of the blue, so very strange. Maria buried her fingers in Eira's thick white fur, her face knit in confusion as she attempted to find some double meaning to the situation.

"These beasts still makes me uneasy," Malik remarked as he strolled back over to her, the hooded man she was to wed following in silent observation. She found it a bit frustrating she had yet to even see his face.

"Why does he wear that hood?" she found herself inquiring, regarding him with narrow blue eyes.

Malik glanced back at him for a moment. "A force of habit. It is a … custom, in a way, and he deems it necessary whenever out in public."

"I see," she mused with a nod. "And _you _do not wear it, because …?"

"Because I do not want to," Malik replied with the simplest of shrugs. "Now then, enough needless prattle – let us down to business."

The awkward silence that followed his proclamation was inevitable, but nevertheless uncomfortable. Maria rocked back and forth on her heels, fiddling with her hands as she felt his eyes boring through her skin.

Malik let out an impatient groan. "I heard many tales of the small talk administered in the court of the English king."

She snorted. "I stopped going to court when I was fifteen."

Malik scowled. "You are not making this easier, _Sayyidaty_." Altaïr finally spoke up, crossing his arms across his chest, seeming to direct his comment to her. Malik replied with a raise of his eyebrow.

"What did he say?" she inquired, wondering if she even wanted to know.

"He says you act unusual for the daughter of a noble," he translated. "He said he finds it … refreshing, to use the word in which he described it."

A bizarre compliment. She supposed it was better than the senseless, empty flattery that she was assaulted with when she bothered with King John's court. She was grateful that she found the sense to put a stop to all of it early on, otherwise she would have been married off to a fat, old, ailing Lord at this point.

"Tell him I said thank you," she murmured.

"_Chukran_," Altaïr piped in. "Is 'thank you' … in _Arabi_." She tilted her head a bit at the sound of his flawed, labored English.

A small voice in the back of her head found his thick accent charming somehow, but it was quickly overruled by how ridiculous it sounded. "Ah … well, _chukran_, then."

He nodded without a word more.

"Well, it seems my lessons have not gone entirely to waste," Malik observed, his face seeming mildly impressed. "I am surprised _Maliki_ even bothered to listen to me, as English tends to be his least favorite subject to discuss or learn."

She cocked an eyebrow. "And yet he decided to take an English wife."

"I have given up trying to understand him," he replied, dismissing the notion with a wave of his right hand. "Regardless, let us begin this conversation with something simple, and possibly entertaining. Tell us the story of your childhood."

She snorted. "It is not an interesting story."

"The way you have turned out, I should think not," Malik argued with a counter smirk. "I spoke to an Englishman once. He said their women were gentle, beautiful and elegant. So far, well–!"

"If your king wanted a fair flower, he seems to have chosen with the skill of a blind beggar," she interrupted, her mouth setting in a scowl. And this Englishman clearly had never been to the countryside. "I was raised not by father, but by my brother."

After Malik translated her sentence to his lord, he turned back to her, his eyebrow raised. She had piqued his interest. "Your brother? Your father spoke of no brother."

"Yes, Father likes to stray from such a wounding topic," she explained, avoiding the unnerving, dark brown gaze of the man. "Alistair saw no reason to bring me up with a woman's finesse, as he knew not how. When my father was too busy with royal affairs to deal with a daughter who did not know how to be a lady of the court, and my mother was … well, not around, Alistair took the matter into his own hands."

Malik's eyebrows rose. "That is … quite strange."

Maria shrugged. "Strange, yes, but I prefer it over the alternative."

She watched his mouth twitch as Malik relayed her past over to him, and she could have sworn she saw the faintest hint of a smirk. When he stopped talking, the king did not reply or react in any noticeable way.

"Brother … where he is?" Altaïr asked.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "He died."

"My apologies, then, _Sayyidaty_," Malik said, bowing his head for a moment. "He sounded like a great man."

"He was," she agreed, attempting to suppress the many memories flooding to her mind of him. Alistair would not want her to act in such a way in an unknown land where she must be strong.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

It had been nearing a month since John had demanded the woman's name, and he still received no answer. His patience was wearing thin. Why were his men such incompetent wretches that they could not even procure a _name_?

"Why have I not yet received my information?" he demanded to his council, glaring them all down. "I want that whore's _name_, damn you all!" He slammed his fist down on the arm of his throne as the men who swore their lives to him stood before him. It startled his wife sitting next to him, but he paid her no mind. A 15 year old child knew not of matters of state.

"Your Grace, my men are trying quite hard, but the Assassins pride themselves in subtlety," James murmured, lowering his eyes in apology.

"Are you trying to tell me that the full might of the crown cannot even find a low-bred whore's _name_? She is a traitor to her entire country – I want her _hung_ for high treason!"

"A thousand apologies, Your Grace," many of them muttered under their breaths, the useless swine.

He buried his face in his hands. "Leave, all of you." They all bowed their heads and began to file out of the throne room. "Except you, William. You stay."

Ever unflinching, he turned around with his hands folded behind his back. "As you wish, My Lord."

"Isabella, wait for me in my chamber," he commanded of his wife, shooing her away with a gesture of his hand. She was a pretty little thing, with long, wavy auburn hair and big brown eyes. It stirred up a bit of trouble with King Philip II of France, but that would be dealt with at another time. She did as she was told and disappeared. She did not talk very much – which was a fine quality in a wife, in his opinion.

Once she was gone, he saw to the matters at hand. "Sir William, if I ask for your honest council, would you give it to me?"

"I have never given you my dishonest council, Your Grace," he replied. He enjoyed William for his calm demeanor in otherwise infuriating situations. Although, it was a bit frustrating deciphering the man's true feelings toward a given subject.

He nodded his head. "Then tell me your opinion on this entire situation. I know you are not the type to make your voice known in a group of people."

"I have my own suspicions, but …"

"Out with them, then!" he ordered. "I am your king, I will know of any and all suspicions."

He nodded. "Of course, Your Grace." He paused for a moment. "James Duvont's daughter Lillian … she has been away in France for quite some time, and I do believe she departed the day your boy Thomas spotted that Assassin ship."

What an accusation! But it seemed entirely plausible. And the facts added up. "So you accuse Duvont of conspiracy with the Assassins?"

He did not reply for many moments. "All I say is that the facts are rather curious. I do not presume to accuse my colleague."

"I admire the honor you have, but there is no nobility in shielding a traitor," he proclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest. "I will take this into consideration. Be gone with you, William."

"Of course, sire," he answered, striding off out of the throne room, his footsteps echoing off of the stone walls.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

Maria was sitting upon the edge of the bed in the small chamber designated to her on the ship, her dogs both asleep, her fingers folded in a tight lock. She cursed herself for bringing Alistair up. It was none of their business, why did she open her big mouth?

She thought of Alistair, her eyes clenching tight. She thought of the wide, playful smile behind his slight brown beard and his dark green eyes, reminiscent of the forest, the corners of which would crinkle when he laughed. She thought of his dark brown hair that fell in a curled mess on his head. The both of them looked like their mother. Neither of William Thorpe's children resembled him, although Alistair had his eyes.

God, he was so full of life. He had to become a father when he was 15 to his little five-year-old brat of a sister, when most boys that age were refining their skills with the blade and going off to war. He was teased for being so close to her by his friends, but he did not seem to care at all.

He taught her how to ride horses and hunt animals. He was the son of a prominent Lord, heir to land and wealth and a position as the king's advisor, but he somehow managed to remain humble. He, like her, did not like noble life, and much rather preferred keeping his mischievous sister out of trouble in the village, and having a pint of mead at the local pub.

He went off to the join the Crusade – unwillingly – when she was 12. He had placed a kiss on her forehead, winked, and promised her that he would be back before some unworthy bastard took her hand. He never returned. And, with the events transpiring, was unable to keep his promise. The only memento she had of him were the skills he taught her, the wisdom he passed on, and the memories.

Tears stung her eyes. She had to stop. She could not let them see her in such a state. A knock on her door alerted her to scrub any and all moisture from her eyes. She straightened her back and resolved to conduct herself with some shred of dignity.

"Come in," she called out.

Malik opened the door. "We have arrived, _Sayyidaty_."

She stood to her feet, walking out of the room to see a vast city on the horizon. A strange vermillion color engrossed the entirety of it as the ship grew closer and closer. The buildings were built in a way so different than in England. There was not a shred of forest in sight, either. "This … is Masyaf?"

"No," he replied, effectively ruining her awe. "This is Latakia, a port city we had to dock in – Masyaf is three days' ride from here."

"Oh," she muttered, pouting. "I see."

He threw his head back in a melodious laugh. "I do not mean to disappoint you, _Sayyidaty_. Unfortunately, Masyaf is not this big – nor is it this grand, but it has its own charms."

She did not even care at that point. All she wanted to do was step off the damn boat and stretch her legs.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

**A/N: Writer's block, writer's block everywhere. But nonetheless, it's here, and with no time to spare, haha. Junior year is killin' me, man. But your response is unexpected and awesome. Thank you. :)**

**Oh, and here's a fun little tidbit. The person I had in mind for Alistair is Kit Harington. Look him up, preferably with the scruff he got for his role in Game of Thrones. Addkd;l;ldsk;dl.**

**But, anyway, enough of my fangirling. I hope you enjoyed this installment, and will be as patient as before for the next!**


	5. Arabian Days

Talons of a King

V: Arabian Days

She looked upon Latakia with the expression of a child. Altaïr watched, fascinated, as her eyes raked across the buildings and markets before her. He could tell she was trying to suppress her real reaction, but she was fooling no one. It was not all that impressive of a city in his mind, but to this woman, it was everything and more. He assumed it was because her homelands were so boring and gray and otherwise lifeless. He had the strange urge to take her to Damascus one day.

"What a strange face she wears," he commented to Malik.

"I find it refreshing from all the scowling and frowning," he replied, and Altaïr smirked, nodding in agreement. When she did not have the face suggesting that they were both some form of kidnapper rapists, she was beautiful. The sun graced her pale face, bringing light to her eyes as she scanned the city in the way a blind man would if given sight again.

She also seemed unaware of the stares people were giving her, or more specifically, her dogs. The beasts padded along at her side without much of a fuss. She could not have been more of a foreigner if she was clad in chain mail and rudely shoving her way through the crowds of people. They knew who he was, and they could see that they were travelling together, so no one dared to speak to her. He preferred it that way.

After a moment, she stopped and spoke. He was too tired to attempt to understand her, despite words standing out, and waited for Malik to lean over and translate. "She says that this resembles nothing of what they told her of the Muslim lands. She said she expected desolate lands and tribes."

Altaïr scoffed. "Her people tell her such lies of us, we who are so much more advanced than those Christian Crusader barbarians."

"Indeed, _Maliki_," Malik agreed. "Perhaps you should take her to the market place?"

He pursed his lips as he pondered. That sounded like an interesting idea. He had been shown what the village outside the manor looked like, but not permitted to walk through since it would alarm the English. But it was enough. What a dark, depressing little excuse for a market place. The people were so filthy and the stench was maddening, even from his position away from them. And from what he could make out, the goods offered were not impressive in the least.

He was, however, in no mood after such a long journey to deal with the insanity of the market place.

"That is for another time," he said at last. "Now, we must return to Masyaf and acquaint her with it. And I must tell the men of what they must do when William Thorpe calls for their services."

"I still do not know why we aid him in such a way," Malik muttered. He never understood Altaïr's decision to accept William Thorpe's proposal; the hand of William's daughter for the soldiers he needed to overthrow King John. Altaïr's men were renowned for their skill and valor in battle. But the woman was not what he sought. With the successful rebellion of the English crown, he would exact revenge on the man responsible for the sacking of Masyaf five years prior: John of England. It would also gain him an ally and prevent another Crusade from occurring.

"Do you not want retribution for your lost arm?" he demanded.

"It is a foolish man who clouds his judgment with the seed of vengeance," he said, his jaw setting in a hard line. "I have too much to do to worry about the past, anyway."

"What could be more important than seeing to it that the bastard who did that to you feels the same kind of pain?" Altaïr insisted, annoyed that his most trusted advisor was not seeing eye to eye with him.

"Teaching _your_ wife our language, our culture and our customs!" Malik snapped. "Or have you forgotten about her?"

Oh, yes. The woman. "She will adapt to our ways soon enough."

"This is not a horse that you leave to the stable boys," he snarled. "This is a human being from the opposite side of the world. And _I_ am not her keeper."

"I did not ask you to be."

He scowled, shaking his head. "You implied it. But by God, Altaïr, I refuse to be this woman's servant." This was one of the few times Malik ever referred to him by his first name. His eyes wandered over to Maria, who was still too engrossed by the scenery around her to notice them arguing. His eyebrows knit together.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

It felt like it had been only five seconds through the city when they reached the horses that would take them to Masyaf. The maddening aroma of spices floated in and out of her nostrils. Her dogs were also going mad in their own little way, but did not cause any sort of trouble. They were far too nervous to do anything frustrating.

Altaïr mounted a pitch black monster of a horse and extended his hand to her. She turned her head to a gray, slender horse staring at her with brown eyes, strode forward and swung onto the saddle with the skill her brother taught her.

Malik raised an eyebrow. "Your brother, I assume?"

She nodded, attempting to suppress the smug smile on her face. But then it struck her. Her dogs could hardly ride. She looked down at them, sitting on their haunches, looking up at her with confused expressions. "What of my dogs?"

"They will have to follow us," Malik informed her, sighing heavily. "It will take longer to arrive in Masyaf, but there is no other choice." She began to wonder how he would be able to ride without an arm, but feared the rudeness of such an inquiry. She owed this man her sanity. Without his conversation, she was certain she would have gone insane on that ship.

She craned her head back to the animals, wondering if they could keep up with these horses. Altaïr made a comment in Arabic, then snapped the reins of his steed and galloped off. She let out a sharp whistle and kicked the horse into motion. It let out a neigh and followed after him.

Eira and Arden bounded after her horse as fast as they could manage. Arden's tongue was lolling out of his mouth, loving the sudden movement and the potential to spend all of the pent up energy stored within him.

~o~o~o~o~o

After a full day of riding, everyone was exhausted to a point that they had to make a small camp. After eating by a small fire, everyone adjourned to their separate sleeping fixtures. Which, incidentally, was a pile of cloth. Maria longed for her large bed back home, in England. The wind, cold and crisp, blew through her thin travel blankets and soaked into her bones. This was nothing compared to English winter, but she nonetheless suppressed a shiver.

Arden let out a low whine and nudged himself closer to her. She smiled, running a hand over his head. Her eyes fluttered shut and she began to think of Alistair. Of an easier time.

~o~o~o~o~o

_Maria Thorpe, a young girl in her eleventh year, ran through the thick forest overlooking her family's manor. The child was covered from head to toe in dirt and sweat, but she paid it no mind. An explorer was not deterred by such trivial matters. Her hair had been tied back into a braid by her maid, in a vain attempt to keep it from becoming too messy or tangled. The dark blue dress she had been forced into was all but ruined by mud and cuts from sneaky branches. But that was not an issue. With a wooden training sword she'd stolen from her brother, she was ready to take on any threat thrown at her._

_ Her muscles locked down when she heard something moving about in the nearby brush. Clammy hands tightened on the wooden hilt of her sword, brandishing it with a look of determination on her face. A rabbit emerged out of nowhere. It stared at her with beady, inquisitive hazel eyes and sniffed the air around it. Careful as can be, she took a tentative step forward and gauged the animal's reaction. It did not move._

_ Another step. Still no movement._

_ She would catch this animal, she decided. She would catch it and Alistair would be proud of her for being such a talented hunter._

_ "Maria!" The rabbit sped away at the sound of the voice she was too focused to recognize and Maria bolted after it. Sweat trickled down her brow as her bare feet pounded against the grass in pursuit of the stealthy animal._

_ Just as she felt her chances were high, her foot caught a large root protruding from the ground and she went slamming into the dirt. Maria lifted her head and scowled after the animal, but it had disappeared the moment she lost her balance._

_ "Maria?" She heard a boisterous laugh and knew who the owner was. "By God, I turn my back for two seconds and you disappear like a phantom."_

_ She stood to her feet, wiping off any excess dirt on her face. Alistair chuckled as he walked up to her, shaking his head with an amused smile stretched across his pale face as he observed the state of her._

_ "I was hunting!" she snapped. "Because of you, the rabbit ran away."_

_ "Not even the fastest man can chase down a rabbit," he said with a raise of his eyebrow. "Really now, little sister, I would have thought you knew that by now."_

_ She scoffed. "I nearly had it."_

_ "I'm sure you did," he agreed, mussing the hair on her head. "But Sara is beside herself with worry about you. And judging by how you look … you may just give the woman an early death."_

_ "She is going to force me to take a bath, I just know it," Maria groaned, clawing at her face for a moment. She hated it when Sara forced her to bathe. She always scrubbed so very hard, she feared her skin would fall off at any given moment. _

_ "Where did you come by this?" he asked, taking the wooden sword from her hands and frowning quite a bit. "Is this from the training ring?"_

_ She avoided his piercing forest gaze. "Yes, yes it is."_

_ "Maria," he sighed, giving her a look of disapproval. "You know how I feel about you using swords."_

_ "You use swords!" she countered, her fists clenching at her sides. It was a terrible argument, she was aware of that, but it was all she had. Alistair had promised to teach her many, many skills forbidden to girls – but sword fighting was not one of them. He had a personal philosophy that she would do well without them, that such skills would only bring misfortune._

_ "Do you think I want to?" he inquired with a frown. "I have no choice. Battle … it is something I hope you never see. It changes people, and not for the better. It has changed _me_."_

_ His words confused her innocent mind. "What do you mean? You are the same."_

_ He gave her a gentle smile, but it struck her the wrong way. It had not reached his eyes, as it usually did. That time, all she could see was sadness. "I can only hope it stays that way. Now, come, we should return to the manor or I fear Sara will set the forest ablaze looking for you." _

_ Needless to say, Sara was as Alistair predicted she would be. "Good God, child! You look as if you have been to Hell and back!" She looked her up and down with a horrorstruck expression. _

_ "Go easy on her, Sara," he said with a laugh. "What is life without a little adventure?"_

_ The maid turned on her lord, pointing a finger at his face. "You spoil her, it is your fault that she would rather become filthy and play like a boy, rather than learn how to be a proper lady!"_

_ "I do not want to be a proper lady," Maria grumbled, crossing her arms across her chest._

_ "Then how are you to be married someday, hm?" she demanded, her hands on her hips. "I promise you no self-respecting lord in this land will wed a brute!"_

_ "No lord is worthy of my sister!" Alistair exclaimed with a mock noble tone, lifting her into the air and spinning her in a complete circle. She let out a shrill fit of laughter. "I'll piss on them all before they can rest their lecherous hands on her!"_

_ "Really, Lord Alistair," Sara hissed as he set her back down on the ground. "Do not use such crass language around her; you have already corrupted her enough."_

_ "Corrupted her," he repeated in a snort. "All I have done is given her freedom! You should see the women at court, Sara, their eyes are dead and their hair is perfect and there is nothing at all interesting about them."_

_ Sara shook her head, running a hand through her thick auburn locks. She let the subject drop and turned her attention back to Maria. "I have already prepared a bath for you, little devil. You will go see yourself into it and I will be with you shortly."_

_ "I do not want a bath!" she protested. "Baths are for the weak."_

_ "Who in the world told you that?" Sara demanded, giving Alistair suspicious looks out of the corner of her eye. He gave the woman a shrug of innocence, as for once, an abstract idea in Maria's head was not of his doing. _

_ "Robert, the stable boy's son," she informed her, as if Robert was the most credible source in the land._

_ Sara scoffed. "That boy smells like the rear end of a horse, himself. I suspect he does not know the meaning of the word 'bath'. Now then, off with you."_

_ She hung her head in defeat and trudged off in the direction of the bath._

_ "Maria." She turned her head to Alistair, who was smirking. "Behave and we will hunt down that rabbit together."_

_ A grin stretched across her face. "Deal!" She ran off, then, ignoring the complaints of Sara, regaining the ability to sprint with this newfound promise._

Maria's eyes snapped open at the sound of movement. The sun was just rising over the horizon, and she stretched her arms into the air, rubbing at her eyes.

"Oh, good, you are awake," Malik observed as he loaded supplies onto the saddle of his horse, "I was contemplating on ways I might rouse you. I was leaning toward dumping water on your face."

Used to him at that point, she stood to her feet, unfazed. "Would that not be a waste of resources?"

"Indeed," he agreed, nodding. "But we cannot delay ourselves _further_, so I was beginning to deem it worth the loss of water." Another jab at her dogs. She made an incomprehensible noise under her breath but chose not to comment.

Altaïr made a toneless comment as he readied himself for the day's ride. Maria looked to Malik. "He says that you can sleep all you want when we arrive in Masyaf. Now is not the time to be a spoiled princess."

She snorted. "I would rather cut my own tongue out than be a princess."

"And what peace that would bring us," Malik quipped, and she threw a grimace his way. Snarky bastard. "Now then, if you are done, pack your things and we will be on our way."

She did so in silence, despising how this voyage of lunacy had managed to resurface all of those memories of Alistair. _For your own good_, she told herself,_ put him out of your head._

~o~o~o~o~o


	6. Kohl and Daggers

Talons of a King

VI: Kohl and Daggers

After days of riding, Masyaf was just a few hours away. Her legs and back ached from nonstop travel, and all Maria wanted to do was bathe in hot water and sleep in a bed that was not made of dirt.

Her dogs had been so obedient over the past week. Running such long distances could not have been pleasant for them. She wished they were still pups, so they could ride in one of her bags without an issue.

"I am surprised your beasts have survived thus far," Malik commented as they rode through a thin brush of trees. "I expected them to collapse from exhaustion at least two days ago."

Maria frowned. The thought of that was less than uplifting. "Well, they have not. You underestimate my dogs' resilience."

He shrugged. "It would seem so, yes." And he left it at that. She wiped the sweat from her forehead and focused on the road ahead.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

King John was enjoying a duck meal in the afternoon, away from the frivolity and chaos of daily court life, when one of his councilmen made their way into his chamber. In any other instance he would be quite annoyed at this intrusion, until he saw who had interrupted him.

"I beg your forgiveness if I disturbed you, sire," Alexandros said in his soft-spoken, accented lilt. He was by no means a seasoned soldier; John doubted the man even knew how to wield a sword. But he was one of John's most valuable advisors. A man taken from the imperial court of Constantinople, he was a thin, fair man with a face almost feminine in appearance. Curled brown hair sat atop his head – accenting his gray, clouded eyes that saw much and told little.

"You are forgiven," John replied with a curt nod. "What have you for me, Alexandros?"

"My little birds tell me much," he relayed with a sly smile. "Whisperings of secret going-ons, things Your Grace would not think of." Intelligence was Alexandros' game, and he played it like a master. If John ordered a man to be followed, Alexandros would see it done.

He was in no mood to be patient with Alexandros' silver tongue. "Out with it, eunuch."

"Of course, Your Grace, I did not mean to offend," Alexandros said, bowing his head in reverence. "I have procured the name you desired."

_That_ warranted an interruption. John grinned, his originally somber mood elevated to sky-high rates. "Such an exclamation pleases me. What is the whore's name?"

An eyebrow rose into the air, his small mouth forming into a pout. "Pray, has Your Grace not figured it out yet?"

The king's gleeful expression faltered. "Of course not, is that not your job?"

"Indeed it is," the Byzantine agreed, "but I assumed Your Grace had caught on to the treachery that lived within your walls. Is it not a king's job to know what lives in his palace?"

Such an insolent remark, in any normal circumstance, would have been received with some form of punishment – but this man's knowledge was what he needed. He humored him. "Indeed, I have received word that one of my own advisors may be plotting against me."

"Could you regale me with your suspicions, sire?" Alexandros inquired.

"If you must know," said John, "Lillian Duvont was seen boarding a ship to France the same day Thomas informed me of the Saracen presence on my land. It is a curious enough lead, and I have sent men to see that through."

Lillian interested the eunuch little. "Who has filled Your Grace's head with this concept?"

"William Thorpe," John replied, raising an eyebrow, "one of my most trusted advisors, I'm sure you have spoken to him. A man of loyalty. He was hesitant to give me Duvont's name, you see, as they are men of the same court and it is not a certainty that she is involved."

"Lilian Duvont sits safe and oblivious in France, I assure you," Alexandros said, his expression never betraying the thoughts within, "but Your Grace, tell me, who has more cause to be treacherous – James Duvont or William Thorpe? A wise man would never truly trust anyone that serves him."

"What you suggest would mean I cannot trust you either, Alexandros, I hope you realize that."

A mischievous glint appeared on his face for half a second. "I live to serve, Your Grace. But yes, a wise man would not trust me, either."

"You suggest that it is William Thorpe who wishes to betray me to the Assassins?"

"Look back at your history, Your Grace. Kings of old and their descendants. Before your grandfather seized the throne of England, who was it that ruled this vast land?"

John's jaw set in a hard line. "William's grandfather, the mad king."

Alexandros seemed amused for a few moments before speaking. "You need only open your eyes to find the answer to this grand question of treachery, Your Grace. It sits in front of you, awaiting your attention."

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o

Malik was elsewhere, she did not know where, when they stopped to rest for a moment. Her hands were knotted in the fur of Eira as she attempted not to look in the direction of her betrothed. He was crouched at the edge of a small river, scrubbing his face with the water.

Curiosity consuming the best of her, her eyes fixated on the back of his head. His hood was down, so she could see his cropped, light brown hair. She found it strange, as Malik's hair was black as night. As he straightened up, she watched him with keener interest. It was as if his jaw line was chiseled by a professional. She noted his high cheek bones and his long nose. His features were not as intense as Malik's.

He shifted in her direction; Maria's eyes, quick and nonchalant, darted away so as not to be caught. Footsteps strode over to her, and she looked up to see that he was standing over her. "Day is hot – must wash face."

She blinked, unsure of whether or not he was asking her or declaring that he had just washed his face. Impatient, he took her hand and tugged her to her feet. For the first time, they had complete eye contact, and it was then that she saw that his eyes were the strangest shade of amber. He led her over to the body of water and pointed to it.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, understanding. "You want me to wash my face."

"Yes," he replied.

She took a step back. "I would rather not." It was nearing the evening, and that would mean it would become cold. Maria preferred not to subject herself to fall ill.

He frowned, pulling her forward again, this time with much more impatience. "You would rather."

"Do not touch me," she snapped, snatching her wrist from his hand. "No, I do not want to."

"I see my king is charming you with his unprecedented skills with the opposite gender," Malik remarked as he strode to the camp. "I knew it was a wise idea to leave you two alone."

"Do not be surprised if you one day find him with my hands around his throat," Maria deadpanned, walking back over to the shaded area with her dogs.

Malik rolled his eyes. "This trip will be much longer if you decide to be difficult, _Sayyidaty._"

"He is trying to force me to wash my face!"

"Oh, God – how _dare_ he!" Malik exclaimed with a tone dripping with sarcasm, putting a hand to his cheek in mock horror. "Looking after the woman he is to marry by making sure she does not collapse from the sun's heat? That bastard. We should just send you back to England right now."

She took the time to glare daggers through him. "You are not helping."

"Neither are you," he replied, unflinching. "Allow me to warn you about something. If you do not make an effort – or, make an effort to make his life more stressful – this union will become bitter and miserable _very_ quickly. England is a long way away, now. It would be in your best interests to attempt to be kind to him."

As much as she hated acknowledging it, he was – of course – correct. "Very well."

"You are not accustomed to losing many arguments," he commented after a few moments of regarding her. "I suggest you become accustomed to it."

"You do not seem to like losing either, Sir Malik."

"Yes, but it is a rare day when I do," he quipped, his face remaining simultaneously smug and expressionless. "You are but a child in this land, stumbling around in an attempt to make sense of confusing surroundings. If you want to survive, you are going to have to listen to me, for I am the only one who speaks your tongue and the only one with enough sense to tell you that which you do not want to hear."

Maria's jaw set in a hard line, but she had no retort. For years she hated being wrong, but nothing could remedy this particular loss. It would be but a waste of breath and she was perfectly aware of that. _I swear the day you lose an argument without a fight will be the day the world ends_, Alistair would always say when she insisted on her own standings and opinions. Her brother was the type to roll his eyes and allow her to believe that she had won.

"Prepare yourself," Malik stated after a long silence. "We will reach Masyaf in due time."

Those words left an ominous ring in her head.

~o~o~o~o~O~o~O~O~O~o~o~o~o~o~o~O~o~O~O~O~o~o

Malik watched as the villagers took in the sight of Altaïr's betrothed with apprehension and curiosity as they rode through the village to the fortress. Any wise king would realize that this entire masquerade would incite much hatred from his people. The woman was English, and on top of that, Christian. Why should they come to accept the member of a people who slaughtered their own in so horrible of a fashion?

Nonetheless, he was impressed by the way she was handling it. She kept her eyes forward, back erect, posture confident. He could see that she refused to show any weakness to them, to give them any means to doubt her – truly a member of royal blood.

"I wish to wed her tonight, Malik," Altaïr declared. "You can do this, can you not?"

Malik blinked. "So soon, _maliki_?"

"The more we delay the inevitable, the more it complicates matters for me – I must begin training with the men for shipment to England," he deadpanned.

"Give her at least a day to rest and contemplate things," he said. "If you cannot tell, she is exhausted."

"So am I," he replied, his voice curt and sharp. "Besides, a woman has not warmed my bed in too long."

At that, Malik snorted. "If you believe she will willingly let you bed her tonight, you have spent too much time under the sun."

"I would be her husband!" Altaïr insisted, raising an eyebrow. "She cannot deny me."

"She can, and she will." The absolute disaster that would be the wedding night was an almost humorous mental image. Malik pictured it ending with her impaling his king with some form of sharp object.

"We shall see about that."

He was through discussing Altaïr's prowess in the bed chamber. "Give her a day to rest and _then_ do whatever it is you must do."

He grunted. "Very well."

~o~o~o~o~O~o~O~O~O~o~o~o~o~o~o~O~o~O~O~O~o~o

The room designated to her was stone, undecorated, and downright depressing. She realized that they did not believe in frivolity but she found it worse than England, which was in itself a grave insult. The dogs did not seem to mind it much, although keeping them from wandering off in the massive castle was a commanding occupation.

While many would jump for joy at the size of the damn place, she was only uncomfortable. So much space – what in all the hells was she to make of it? With a sigh, Maria crawled onto the large bed and attempted to find some type of solace in sleep. Her dogs curled up on either side of her, and their combined body heat guided her down the dark, warm path of her subconscious.

Maria awoke the following morning from a dreamless night. Both dogs were still asleep and it took some awkward, creative maneuvering to wiggle out of bed without rousing them. She wandered over to the window and looked out over the view of her room. It felt like she could reach out and touch the mountains spanning near Masyaf. The wind brushed up against her face, greeting her to a clear, blustery morning.

She had rode into Masyaf with the knowledge that she would never see England again – and as she looked upon the faces of the villagers, all she could make out was hatred, contempt and fear. A strange sense of confidence had come over her. She wanted to show these people that she did not fear the unknown, that she would overcome the obstacles ahead of her and be fair to them. It was a shaky attempt, however, to block out the words of clear cruelty being bellowed to her, and in that moment she was glad that Arabic remained an unintelligible language to her. Above all else, she refused to show weakness knowing that Altaïr would be watching and judging her every move. Despite her fear, it was no business of his to know that.

Eyes fluttering shut, her hands curled up into fists against the cold stone of the castle. Malik had informed her the day before that this was the day she was to wed Altaïr and become his wife.

A normal emotion for many mere hours before their wedding ceremony would be a mixture of fear, elation and anxiety. All Maria could think about was Alistair, despite her attempts to erase him from her mind.

She imagined the distress he would have been in, the fuss he would have made that his sister was to marry _anyone_, let alone some Saracen king. The thought had the smallest of smiles tugging on the corner of her lips.

The door to her chamber slammed open, and she whirled, coming face to face with a raven-haired, sultry looking woman with full lips and frightening hazel eyes. There was no doubt in Maria's mind that she was beautiful, but it was an intimidating beauty that unsettled her for some reason. She wore a long, square-collared gown that was a deep shade of mahogany, embroidered with golden threads that hugged her body quite nicely.

"Greetings, _Sayyidaty_," the woman said in an accent heavier than Malik's. "I have been asked by Malik to prepare you for your wedding today."

"You speak English," she commented, confused. "I thought only Malik–?"

"It is part of my occupation to speak many tongues of many men," she explained, her accented lilt bouncing off the tip of her words. "I am Nasreen."

"It is … nice to meet you," Maria said.

She nodded, extending her hand to the bride-to-be. "Come, we have much to do and the sun climbs the sky." With hesitance, she took the woman's hand and let herself be steered down a long corridor.


	7. Scent

Talons of a King

VII: Scent

Before Maria could register what was happening, she was stripped naked, told to sit in a large metal tub, and doused with hot water. She let out a sharp cry and attempted to shield herself with her arms, to no real avail. The woman's sleeves were rolled up, and as she took out many vials of what Maria hoped to be nonlethal substances, she took in the tiled room around them with an incredulous expression. It was constructed beautifully. Each tile, a strange, light shade of blue, was centered with a delicately painted design, as if every solitary one was done by a meticulous hand.

"Months on the road have left you smelling like horse stable," Nasreen remarked, her expression never shifting from blank and business-like. "_Maliki_ will not bed women who smell like horse."

Maria sputtered for a moment, feeling her face turn a violent hue of red. "B – Bed?"

Nasreen looked at her for a moment, an eyebrow raised in confusion. "Of course," the woman replied, as if she was a child that had just inquired upon an obvious question.

A lump formed in her throat. She knew this was going to happen, but the idea of that man's hands on her was sickening and frightening all at once. Thoughts of dread, however, were impossible. Any thoughts at all were, as the harsh wash cloth scraped down her skin.

The woman exhaled in impatience. "I must be rid of the dead skin, my lady. To have beauty is pain." Which meant that she was to cease acting like a child and deal with it. And so in response, Maria ground her teeth together and bore with the rough cloth scrubbing all over her body. After what felt like hours of the same grueling procedure, she moved on to her hair. Nasreen scrubbed her thick, straight brown hair with some kind of concoction that smelled of flowers.

Maria had her knees tucked to her chest as the bathing proceeded. Eventually, Nasreen decided to strike conversation. "Do you fear bedding _maliki_?"

Such an abrupt, personal question caught her off guard. "Uhm … I do not know him very well."

"So? He will be your husband – and you are lucky that he is young, handsome, and quite talented with his hands." That final comment piqued her interest.

"You … and him have …?"

Nasreen threw her head back in a melodic, musical laugh. "You truly hail from England. So uncomfortable with matters of the body. Yes, he and I have shared a bed – but do not fear; it was without any form of love."

"Then you are a–?"

"Courtesan?" Nasreen said, raising an eyebrow with an amused smile. "Yes. Does it offend you?"

Her sheltered, antisocial lifestyle had kept her from ever coming face to face with a fully fledged prostitute. When she had wasted her days in King John's courts, the other girls would whisper of his dealings with these women of the night. Maria shook her head. "No, no. In fact, I am relieved you speak English. Malik is not much of a conversationalist."

She chuckled. "No, he is not. He is a man who sees no need to refine the art of speech. Malik is a man of business. I, however, must soothe the ears of men, as well as their bodies, so it is among my duties to turn speech into an art form."

"Where are you from?" Maria could not help but ask. Anything to keep her mind off of the next few hours to come.

"Persia," Nasreen replied as she began to wash Maria's back, and her tone suggested it was not a topic in which was up for discussion. "Your skin is soft and fair … it will please him."

Warmth rushed to her face once more. "I do not care what pleases him."

"Such a sharpened tongue you have," she remarked, trailing an idle finger down Maria's spine. "I take it that your upbringing was not as noble as I would suspect."

For a moment, she chuckled. "Yes, you could say that. My older brother raised me."

The woman's hands stilled for a few misplaced seconds, and she stood to her feet and brought forth a wooden comb to brush the tangles out of her hair. "Tonight, you must heed my warning. You must allow him to have his way with you and swallow any sense of silly pride you may have left from your journey. It will do you no good."

The second person to tell her to succumb to defeat. Her jaw set in a hard line. "I suppose I have no choice in the matter."

"You do not," she agreed, although her voice was gentle. "But know this: a woman with your spirit can gain an unprecedented amount of power, and she gains it from the bed chamber."

Xxxxxxxxxxxx

Nasreen had dressed the queen in the making in a dark, silken green chemise embroidered with silver threads that swirled in all kinds of patterns, the fabric hugging her body as if tailored with her in mind. She did not wear a gown, much to her surprise. Next, she was fitted in poofy, yet comfortable trousers of the same style to match her chemise.

"I thought they did not believe in frivolity," Maria remarked, in awe at the beauty of this outfit.

She snorted. "It is a wedding, there is no such thing as frivolity." Her eyes had been lined with a black paint Nasreen had called '_kohl_', a strange substance that made them itch a bit. Silver shimmering shoes with pointed ends were given to her to slip into, and she marveled at how soft they felt on the inside.

With a triumphant smile, Nasreen declared that her hard work had paid off and instructed Maria to go to courtyard outside the castle, where the villagers would be waiting to be introduced to their new queen. Swallowing hard, Maria nodded and made her way from her quarters, down the long stone hallway to a large set of spiraling stairs.

Whether or not she was going the right way was beyond her, but she decided to follow her instincts and trailed down the steps, her footsteps bouncing off the walls and echoing into the air. Halfway down, she came across a small door that had cobwebs growing on the knob. Curiosity seizing her, she pushed the heavy wooden open.

She let out a fit of coughs at the dust floating around the room. Confused, she squinted her eyes to make it out through the darkness, and noticed that small sources of light were peeking through otherwise thick curtains. Maria strolled over and yanked one of the curtains opened and watched, with awe, as the room illuminated to reveal large shelves that stretched high into the air. Each solitary space was filled with leather-bound books of all shapes and sizes.

Her breath caught in her throat in awe, and she dashed over to another window and drew the curtains with an excited yank. The room grew in size, and the amount of books doubled and then tripled in a matter of seconds. She did not believe such a quantity even existed but here it was. Maria rushed to one of the lower shelves and pulled a book out, opening it to a random page in an attempt to make out its contents.

A frustrated curse bypassed her lips. This was not lettering that she recognized. It looked like someone had scribbled nonsensical lines into the page. It occurred to her that this was probably Arabic, and she pouted in disappointment as she slipped it back into its place on the shelf.

"_Sayyidaty_!" Whirling on her heel, she came face to face with a handsome boy that looked no older than seventeen. His nose and face shape reminded her of Malik, but in the place of analytical onyx eyes, they were bright, innocent blue. He said something in Arabic, gesturing to the exit with a rushed, somewhat frantic expression.

She tilted her head in confusion, and could only make out _yalla_ since he kept saying it again and again. From what she could decipher, it could have easily meant that they needed to go. Exhaling in impatience, he dashed forward and seized her wrist, tugging her back out the door of the library.

He led her to the main door where she could hear the cheering and bustle of a large crowd. He stopped, released her and told her to wait, if her understanding of body language had not failed her. Within moments, Malik stormed forward from the outside, his hand on his hip.

"How nice of you to join us," he said. "I hope my brother did not catch you trying to run away, as you are most late." The boy was his brother?

She frowned. "It is not my fault that this God forsaken castle is so large."

His eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he let the subject drop. "We will discuss your tardiness later – the people wait to be introduced to you." He gestured forward with an expectant look in his eyes. Heaving a nervous sigh, she sucked in her gut and made her way out to the courtyard, where Altaïr was facing the crowd with his hands behind his back, his posture perfect and unyielding. He wore gray and red robes – his hood, as always, was up. A monarch, above all else.

The crowd reacted upon her stepping onto the platform, and he turned to make direct eye contact with her for a few seconds before scanning her up and down. His facial features did not even make the slightest twitch before extending a hand to her. She took it with hesitance, noting its rough texture, and looked upon the crowd, who were regarding her with apprehension and curiosity.

Malik's voice boomed out to the large group of people as he discussed the both of them. He used her name once or twice, and it took a large amount of nerve to stand before them so vulnerable and exposed to ridicule. As Malik spoke, she could make out young women in the audience glaring at her with malevolent scowls on their faces. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. _Oh my_, she thought. _My new husband has a bit of a following, how lucky of me to have inherited it._

Her hand was hoisted into the air all of a sudden, and the crowd let out a roar. And she was unable to tell if it was positive or negative. In that instant, she was turned to face Altaïr, and he stared at her with the strangest look burning in his amber eyes. Before she could register the situation, he was leaning in, eyes shut and lips puckered. Panic seized her, and in haste she turned her head, and his kiss landed on the center of her cheek, his stubble tickling her skin.

A low rumble shook the citizens of Masyaf and gasps of surprise shot into the air. Her heart was hammering against her rib cage. The uniformed guards observing the spectacle burst out in a fit of simultaneous laughter, and even Malik seemed to be suppressing a smile of amusement. The king's face darkened and Maria was perfectly aware of the fact that she had just humiliated him in front of his people, and felt apologetic. But then, he could have given her better warning than he did.

Soon, she was being pulled back into the castle, Altaïr's grip on her tightening painfully. He brought to her what looked like a study, with a large wooden desk situated in the center of a room adorned with red flags and a strange, triangular black symbol upon them.

He let her go with an uncaring shove, yanking the hood of his robes off so he could give her a proper nasty look. That was when she noticed the scar stretching down the edge of his lips. Malik appeared swiftly in suit.

"That was unwise," he informed her, although she could still detect the twinkle in his eyes. The king made a sharp, angry remark, never taking his eyes off of her. Malik appealed with his hand up, palm forward, but the king did not seem to want to hear of it.

"You summoned me?" They all turned at the sound of Nasreen's voice, and Maria assumed by the fact that she was speaking English that this matter concerned her.

"Yes," Malik said, sticking to English. "Take the queen up to her chambers. I would prefer it that she does not wander off again before she is needed later tonight."

The woman nodded in understanding, beckoning Maria forward with a quick motion of her hand. She did so in silence. As soon as they were out of earshot, Nasreen spun around and put her hands on her waist, raising an eyebrow in question.

"Did everything I say fly out of your ears?" she demanded.

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed. "I panicked."

"And now you have insulted him not even ten seconds into the marriage," she deadpanned, shaking her head. Maria muttered unintelligible words under her breath and stalked back to her quarters.

Xxxxxxxx

His room was far simpler than would befit a king. A large, comfortable-looking bed sat at the edge of the chamber. There was a shelf filled with books and a burgundy desk sitting beside it, scattered papers thrown all over it. Nasreen had instructed her to wait for him, to surprise him. She had dressed her in a light blue, shimmering material that clung to her body.

"And for God's sake," she had said before they reached his room, "look happy to see him."

Heart racing, she made her way over to the bookshelf and ran a finger across the many leather spines. Any and all pride had been swallowed, because she knew now more than ever that this was inevitable, and she had to be brave and see it through. Her fingers froze when the door swung open and Altaïr strode in, taking in the sight of her standing there.

He regarded her for a few moments before removing his hood and the outer layer of his robe, tossing it uncaringly to the ground. Unrelenting amber pierced through her like a sharpened dagger, and in silence he marched over to her, stopping uncomfortably close. In the candle light, she could see the chiseled line of his jaw and his strangely pale skin for one of his race.

She whispered the word for apology in Arabic. Nasreen insisted that it would mean more if it was said in his native tongue. She found herself worried if she said it right, as she took the woman's Persian accent into account when learning the word.

No reply was given to her, and without a word, he began to undo the fastenings of his robes – all the while, he never broke eye contact from her. Layers fell onto the ground one by one until his chest was bare. It was in that instant that she realized that he was missing a finger on his left hand.

To say she was unimpressed by the amount of muscles on him would be a gross lie, and her face grew redder at her attempts to not look like she was gawking. What alarmed here was the amount of scars crisscrossing the skin of his body. What kind of battles had he faced, while looking so young? His hands grasped her face for a moment, and this time, she was far too flustered with the situation to avoid his kiss, and he did so with an unnerving ferocity.

It almost felt like revenge, to make her feel what she missed when she humiliated him in front of his subjects. With that keeping her distracted, she did not notice that his hands had snaked down to her garments and began untying the knots that held it together with an expert finesse.

She knew she had to move, to respond to him, but virgin terror and shyness and dread all mixed together into a potent feeling that froze her muscles. All of her life she had avoided excessive social interaction with other people for the purpose of protecting herself, to make sure she was always in control of her own life. And here this man was, holding it in his hands.

A shiver tore up her spine when his hands traveled down her now bare, smooth shoulders as the fabric previously covering her up began to slink off of her body onto the ground. Being so vulnerable was maddening to her. His eyes examined her as if reading a book, and yet his expression never changed to signify that he was pleased with her. It was up in the air whether or not he was even attracted to her.

He pushed her down onto the mattress, meeting her mouth again and clutching at the fabric separating him from the flesh of her thigh. Hands went on a manic exploration, and it was all too much for her to comprehend all at once. The speed, however, stilled after a few moments. A low growl rumbled in his chest, and as quickly as the onslaught began, it ceased.

Altaïr rolled off of her and sat in silence for a few agonizing moments before finally speaking, his voice as sharp as a blade. "Leave."

Her jaw slackened. "Wh … What?"

"_Leave_, I say." His words, spoken in such an indifferent tone, cut deep, wounding her self-esteem more than he could ever comprehend. She was not even relieved, tasting hot disappointment in the back of her throat. Nonetheless, she decided to leave with a semblance of dignity, putting her clothes back on and storming out of the room with her head held high.

She slammed the large wooden door shut behind her and dashed back to her chambers with haste. Tears burned the corners of her eyes. All of that preparation, all of that frustration. Was it revenge for earlier today in front of the people of Masyaf? She would not put it past him. How dare he, she thought. Was she not good enough for him? Did she not please him? Did the hours of preparation and the swallowing of pride mean nothing to this selfish bastard? In an attempt to be civil, she had decided not to be difficult – and because she was not one of his courtesans, it bored him? Anger boiled inside of her.

Maria leapt onto the bed of her room and buried her face in the cushions, digging her nails into the cloth.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N: Oh, the drama. I hope I don't accidentally turn this into a soap opera, hahahaha. Buuut Thanksgiving break is coming up so WEEE more time for writing. **


	8. Lord of the Land

Talons of a King

VIII: Lord of the Land

Malik dipped the quill into his jar of ink, writing out training coordination for the men to be shipped off to England in seven month's time. He found it fortunate that William Thorpe was a notably patient man, a trait that did not seem to pass onto his daughter. He found it odd, as he had not seen a single glimpse of her all day. It was quite simple to assume two different reasons for this.

The first being that the wedding night went exceedingly well and that the newlyweds were spending all of their time together. Of course, a requirement for the first option would be for his arm to spontaneously grow back and eagles to fly out of his rear.

So he assumed that the wedding night was a disaster and the new queen saw it fit to exile herself until further notice. Troublesome as it was – as he still needed to begin her Arabic lessons – at least it gave him time to focus on the hundreds of other things his king had so graciously bestowed upon him.

"Malik." With a sigh, he looked up from his work and watched as Altaïr came into his study and plopped down onto a nearby velvet chair.

"_Maliki_," he acknowledged. "Your bride is surprisingly quiet today. Did you put a blade in her throat?"

The young king grunted, fingering the chair's fabric. "Last night was less than what I expected it to be."

"Oh?" Malik asked with evident sarcasm. Even the lowest novices in the castle knew what happened. The servants had keener ears than what was credited to them. "Did she attempt to slice your manhood off?"

"Who dressed her?" Altaïr inquired, ignoring the jab.

"I arranged for Nasreen to see to it," Malik explained with a shrug. She was one of Altaïr's most favored courtesans. Men fell at that Persian's feet, but as for Malik, all he could see was an arrogant woman who took pride in her ability to play with the bodies and souls of helpless men.

Altaïr paused for a moment. "I see."

"Why? Did it not please you?"

"Of course it pleased me," Altaïr disagreed, looking at him with those strange-colored eyes of his. "She was beautiful."

"So _what was the problem_?" he snapped, tired of the word games and beating around the bush.

"She was trembling," he deadpanned, hands curling into fists. "Malik, it looked as if I had beaten her into submission. All of the fire I saw in her had been doused. I will not sink so low as to rape the woman, and it seemed to be coming to that. Nasreen must have said something to her … I expected a fight. Some kind of resistance. Perhaps coax her into trusting me. But no, she stood there and would not move an inch."

Such a response confused, yet impressed Malik. "So you did not bed her?"

"No," he said. "I sent her away. It was the only way I saw fit, else I would have taken her regardless of her consent or not, such was my desire." There was a grim pause.

"You believe it would have been rape, not exerting your right as her husband?" Malik inquired, raising an eyebrow. He had only just said the other day something along those lines – such a queer change of mind for someone of Altaïr's stubbornness. This woman has a different effect on him than others in the past have, but Malik was quite aware that he would rather chew his leg off than admit to that.

He shook his head. "Only a coward beds an unwilling woman."

"And how exactly do you propose to persuade her to be willing? With your impeccable English?"

"Time," he quipped. "She will grow to accept me in time."

"You have never been one for time, do not fool yourself," Malik pointed out, looking down to his work as he shared his thoughts on the situation. "You will grow impatient, Altaïr, as you always do – and I have a feeling any chance of her being willing evaporated the moment you sent her away from your room last night."

"How could she be angry with me?" he demanded, and Malik had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "I have done her a service – she was not ready for–!"

"Did you _relay_ that to her?" he interjected, cutting him off. "Because I'll be _very_ impressed if you did."

The silence that followed answered that question. "God damn this language barrier I have found myself in!" Altaïr exclaimed, slamming his fist down on the table. "Malik, you will commence her lessons as soon as possible. I would like so simple a privilege as to be able to _speak_ to my wife."

The advisor bowed his head. "I shall begin tomorrow, _Maliki_."

"Why not today?" Altaïr grumbled, reminiscent of a spoiled young boy.

"I am going to advise Nasreen to take Maria out into the village today," Malik informed him with a shrug. "A little fresh air will do her some good, and maybe stem the murderous plots I'm sure are bubbling in her head."

XXXXXXX

"Thomas," King John called idly, lounging in his bed with one of Isabella's ladies-in-waiting. She was fairy-like, with pink petal lips and hips like an oasis. He had already forgotten the woman's name, but her time in the French court had taught her a good deal of useful skills. He was playing with her thick, curled red hair, twirling it on his finger.

The young boy poked his head through the heavy wooden door. "Y – Yes, sire?"

"Send a message to William Thorpe, will you? I require an audience with him in the greatest haste."

"Of course, Your Grace."

XXXXXX

She had begun to miss England. If only for the thick forests that had made up a large portion of her childhood. The dusty, beige tint of Masyaf had grown annoying quicker than even she anticipated. The air was arid, the hot sun hidden by the thick gray clouds of winter. She was unable to bring her dogs along, either, for fear of inciting some form of incident in the market place. Nasreen had dressed her in beige robes, something far simpler than what she had worn to the wedding.

"It is a wise queen that dresses not much farther than her subjects," she advised Maria. "They will respect you far more."

That was the opposite of what she had been raised to believe. She remembered King John in her time at his court; she wagered his clothes alone were worth more than Thorpe manor. "In England, members of the royal family dress in the most expensive, finest material in the entire world. If they _ever_ ventured out into public, it was to show our people who was in charge."

There was a long pause before she answered. "And what do your people think of your king and his family?"

"I think you can guess," Maria replied, frowning. King John was not popular, and he knew it. Alistair would often protest when Maria had to attend events at the court, afraid that she would become like "them". He disliked the women of King John's court. Perhaps that was why he insisted on never marrying before he left for the Crusade. Sara certainly gave him all kinds of hell for it.

Nasreen nodded, a smug look crossing her beautiful face. "Exactly."

Maria walked through the rest of the village, a tense aura consuming her. The looks she'd been given by Altaïr's people – they were those of an outsider. How could she ever rule over people who did not even accept her as a person? Not even able to speak the language and lacking even a basic understanding of this strange desert culture, she felt truly unwelcome.

"Is something troubling you, _Malikaty_?" Nasreen asked.

She was in no mood to rant like an old crone. "No … just acclimatizing is more difficult than I assumed."

The woman nodded in understanding. "Yes, it is to be expected, but I can tell you are a woman of great strength. You will not fail in gaining the love of the people."

"I am not one of your clients, Nasreen," Maria commented. "I prefer honesty. They hate my people. I am nothing but a Christian invader who has stolen away their king." A more correct generalization would be that _he_ stole _her_ away, but as far as a normal villager was concerned, it was the other way around. They probably thought her a witch, waiting for the day their king grows tired of her to burn her at the stake.

"Sulking like a child will not help you," she said. "If you do not try, then yes, they will always hate you for what you are. But it is your duty to show them that you are not like the men who have ravaged their lands in the name of their God. If you stand around and complain, then do not expect their love."

"How do you propose I go about that?" she demanded, arms shooting in the air in exasperation.

"Learn," Nasreen replied. "Watch. Observe how they work, notice the problems that plague their lives every day, show them that you intend to help them."

Frustration began to overtake her. "How in God's name am I to do that when the king himself does not even give a damn about me?" She was a virgin after her wedding night, for God's sake.

Her expression hardened, her eyes narrowing. "If he did not care about you, why did he leave you a maiden on your wedding night? Any other man, I promise you, would have taken you, even if he had to beat you into submission. It is his right as a husband. But Altaïr did not."

Warmth flooded to her pale cheeks in defeat. Perhaps she needed to learn a few more words in Arabic.

XXXX

**A/N: Don't kill me, yeah? Things have been hectic. I went to Paris for my winter holiday and then school crept up behind me and bit square in the ass. D8**

**Without further ado, here ya go! I'll definitely try to be more, uhm, prompt. **


	9. Education

Talons of a King

IX: Education

"You sound like an old crow being mauled to death," Malik declared, slamming his hand down on the desk of his study. The young queen stared up at him with a scowl of frustration on her face. "Use the _back_ of your throat to pronounce the _kah_, _Malikaty_. It is not difficult, now, again!"

"Not difficult for _you_, perhaps," she snapped, tired of his perfectionism. Lessons had been well under way for well over a month, and Malik had a problem with letting her progress if her pronunciation was not "good enough". And that was in speaking alone. She did not want to know how hellish reading and writing would be. "This bloody language … what kind of sadistic bastard came up with it?"

"It is the language of your husband, his ancestors and mine, and will be the language of your children," Malik replied, haughty and indignant.

The word 'children' struck a nerve that she had been attempting to ignore since the marriage announcement, but this was not an argument to be had with Malik. "It is not like I do this on purpose."

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Yes, I am aware, but your stubbornness makes it that much more strenuous to do my job."

"I am doing my best," she retorted.

"Your best is not good enough. Again!"

XXXXXX

"William, I have received rather alarming news, recently." John lounged on his throne, legs crossed, regarding his advisor with a raised eyebrow.

"Sire?" His face remained neutral, calm as ever and unchanging. John could not see deceit in the man's eyes, but he supposed such a man knew how to hide his emotions unlike any other. Alexandros' words rung in the king's ears. It all made sense. William, the grandson of Mad King Henry V – why _not_ attempt treason? He probably thought his blood gave him legitimacy, the traitorous bastard.

John dispelled his wandering thoughts to return to the topic. "I have received considerable amounts of intelligence that you have been associating with those Godless heathens out in the east, that your daughter was the one on that bloody ship."

"All lies, surely you have realized this," William replied. He scanned the man's face for any type of falter that would give him away, but he saw nothing. "Your Grace, I have dedicated my life to serving you and your family. Maria is at home, where she belongs."

"Hm, yes," John agreed, grunting. "But had history gone a bit differently, it would be me devoting my life to you, would it not?"

William folded his arms behind his back. "The fall of my house was inevitable, my great-grandfather was a–!"

"Oh for the love of God, William – do not recite that tired old speech to me, I have heard it at least a thousand times since the day I met you." The fact that the house of Thorpe was not utterly annihilated once the Mad King was overthrown was entirely due to the good graces of John's grandfather. Henry V's young son renounced his father, proved himself in war and was awarded a title. It was a happy ending for an otherwise doomed bloodline.

"Then what am I to reply, sire? You accuse me of treason."

"And rightly so, Sir William." Alexandros had an annoying tendency to be able to slip in and out of rooms without anyone noticing. Eunuchs were such strange creatures. "Your activities outside of this palace have been _most_ curious."

"Alexandros," William acknowledged, eyes narrowing. "Somehow I knew you would be behind such a baseless claim."

"Baseless?" The man repeated, his voice shooting up an octave. "Sir William, information is my trade, my bread and butter, the very air in which I breathe; why would I sully my reputation if I was _not_ sure that you were a traitorous snake?"

Despite the fact that treason and association with a sworn enemy was being thrown in his face, William did not falter.

"My only son laid down his life for the protection of this realm against the very same people you accuse me of plotting with," he said, his hands tightening into fists. "So do not insult me with such accusations unless you can produce solid proof."

Alexandros nodded. "Of course, Sir William. There is the very real chance that I am wrong in these claims and that I will gladly hang for the misinformation of my most beloved king. If you simply bring your daughter to court, all will be well."

XXXXXXX

"Can I take a break?" she muttered, fingering the wood of the table the both of them sat on, her hand against her cheek in utter boredom. They had been at this for well over three hours, and if she had to learn more of the folly of the Arabic language, she would take a blade to her skull.

"No," Malik replied, flat and absolute. "Now, we need to work on your grammar."

"Fuck the grammar."

His eyebrows shot up at the sheer audacity of that statement. "Excuse me?"

"I said _fuck the grammar_!" she exclaimed, slamming her hands down on the table and shooting to her feet. Eyes darting to the exit, a daring little plan popped into her head and began to whisper evilly to her brain. Rebellion sounded so very tempting. With a prompt turn on her heel, she fled the room in malevolent glee.

"_Maria_!" Perhaps it was immature; perhaps it was extraordinarily childish to run away from lessons like an impatient princess from a manic, one-armed governess, but she had absolutely no further desire to 'learn' that day. It was fortunate for her that Masyaf had such an extensive and large castle – rampant with hiding places. It also made things much easier that Arabs allowed women to wear flow-y trouser-like garments. Escape became that much easier, even more so when she discarded her slippers.

She dashed down the long stone corridors, snickering to herself as she heard the rapid footsteps of Malik behind her. He was fast, she gave him that, but she was faster and infinitely more motivated to escape his education. Maria enjoyed the fact that the castle had many more windows than her manor did.

Taking a sharp turn left, she ended up bolting past Altaïr, of all people, letting out a small laugh in response to his look of confusion. She flew up a flight of winding, spiral stairs and ended up in a small study where Malik's little brother, Kadar, was looking over a leather-bound volume. He turned around, alarmed, regarding the breathless queen with bewilderment in his blue doe eyes.

She bit her lip, frustrated because she lacked the knowledge to be able to tell him what was going on. Impatient footsteps behind her sent an electrical shock up her spine, and she rushed over to the thick curtains and frantically pressed her lips to her mouth, shaking her head.

"Silence," she told him in Arabic, quite certain of that word, as Malik would often bark it to her. She pulled the red fabric over her body, back against the cold stone wall, clamping a hand over her mouth so as not to give herself away.

Soon enough, Malik barged into the study. She listened intently, smirking with impish delight upon the realization that she'd tired him out, judging by his harsh breathing.

Peeking from behind the corner of the curtain, she watched as Malik demanded her location out of his little brother. There was a hopelessly long pause before the young boy shrugged, feigning complete innocence. Grumbling profanities under his breath, he stalked out of the room. The noise faded away, and she emerged from her hiding place, triumphant in her escape from the beast.

She thanked Kadar in the best Arabic she could muster, retreating from the study and making her way down the spiral staircase.

"Devilish woman!" Maria almost jumped out of her skin as Malik emerged from what seemed to be nowhere, although he did not see her. Careful not to make a sound, she ran off in the opposite direction. She flew down the main stairs of the castle, reaching the front, and watched as the soldiers looked upon her with a bemused curiosity, as if she was an exotic animal escaped from her restraints.

She did not blame them. It was not every day that the wife of their king ran out of the castle, barefoot and short of breath. Many of them bowed their heads out of respect, but others regarded her as if she'd recently escaped a madhouse.

"_Malikaty_, are you not supposed to be studying right now?" Nasreen strolled forward from the village. "And … why are you not wearing shoes?"

Maria shrugged. "Lessons ended early."

"Horse shit, this is Malik we speak of. There is no 'early' with that man. What have you done this time?"

"Abandoned her studies like a child." Malik appeared, a look of disdain and clear irritation plastered on his face. The game was up.

"Did she?"

"I pursued her through the castle like a criminal," he informed Nasreen, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

"Am I not your queen?" Maria demanded, hands on her hips. "If I do not wish to study, I will damn well do as I please!"

He sighed with impatience. "These lessons are essential to your survival here, _Malikaty_. If there is no language, there is no basis for understanding our culture."

"I am going mad, Malik! Cooped up in that castle all day, studying day in and day out!"

"She has a point," Nasreen murmured, looking away to avoid Malik's sharp dagger gaze.

"Fine, you want some fresh air," Malik said with an exasperated wave of his arm. "I wish to know what you have in mind, my Queen."

Maria grinned.

XXX

Altaïr stared at his wife and his advisor standing beside her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief at the request being given to him.

"She wants to _what_?" he demanded.

"Go hunting,_ Maliki_," Malik explained, clearing his throat in embarrassment. He obviously did not agree with the idea, either.

Had the heat finally driven her insane? _Hunting_? "Tell her that she is out of her mind and that my answer is no."

Malik did not even have the chance to translate before she stepped forward, big blue eyes boring into his own with something of a pleading expression. She had definitely swallowed her pride to ask this request.

"It is not … uh … dangerous," she assured him in comically accented, elementary Arabic. "Hunting is what I know since child – safe!" Dear God, was his English this bad? He resisted the urge to laugh, it would only spark her temper and her language ability would drop even lower.

"What are you _teaching_ her, Malik?" Altaïr remarked, smirking. "Have you even gone over grammar yet?"

"I have," he retorted, his wounded pride only making the situation more humorous to Altaïr. "She is simply trying to familiarize herself with it."

"And run away from it," Altaïr remarked, glancing at her with the clear memory of her running past him with childish delight. He didn't understand what had come over her at the time, but now it all made sense.

"You saw that?" Malik muttered, exhaling sharply through his teeth.

"Indeed. It was quite a spectacle." He'd considered pursuing her and finding out what had prompted this marathon through the castle, but he decided against it when he heard Malik's motherly bellowing down the hall. A little exercise ought to do the man good, he thought.

"I handled it."

"I see." Better not to rile Malik up any further, it was already embarrassing enough that he lost a race with an upstart Christian woman. "Well, suggest to her that she familiarize herself with the language before she tries to do so with the animals. Hunting is for men, I do not want my bride breaking a leg chasing down a rabbit."

"You know as well as I that she is not going to budge, _Maliki_," he advised the young king. "Perhaps it would be more … educational to allow her to learn this on her own."

"Unlike you, I am unwilling to put her – my _wife_ – in harm's way for the sake of education."

"You can accompany her," he qualified.

Altaïr considered it. It would indeed humble her a bit, and he supposed a day away from all the training and the planning would be beneficial. "Very well. We shall leave at dawn – inform her I won't be leaving any later."

Malik did his job, and she made clear eye contact with Altaïr for the first time in what he assumed to be weeks.

"_Choukran_," she said, a smile stretching across her lips. It was the first time she had _ever_ smiled at him without murderous intent laced throughout it, and he found himself staring at her in slight awe. It made her beautiful. He found himself reaching out to cup the smooth, pale skin of her cheek.

"It is my pleasure," he replied, wondering if she could understand it. He observed as her jaw hardened, her body making the slightest cringe away from the palm of his hand out of what seemed to be pure instinct. It came to his notice that this woman didn't trust. Not immediately, anyway. Someone had instructed her to behave with him, to not slap his hand away, as he could so clearly see upon her face.

Such a fiery one. It made everything so much more fun.

XXXX

**A/N: Junior year is a pain, but I promise to be regular about these chapter updates, everyone. I figured I needed to do this before Mass Effect 3 came out, because then I would just be glued to the TV for a long, long time and **_**never**_** get this bloody chapter out. Anyway, hope you enjoyed, and don't worry, I haven't lost my motivation for this story. **


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